Wyoming Heather (7 page)

Chapter 14

They moved to the meager shade of some scrub oak. Patch followed behind Heather. Whip paused long enough to untie Buck and Wind from the chuck wagon. He spoke quietly to Cookie who nodded, snapped the reins, and bellowed out a curse filled command. The wagon jolted forward and was soon lost to sight as it closed the distance to the herd.

Heather sat on the one rock leaving Buster and Whip to lean against the brush or to hunker down in the small strip of shade. With evidence of time spent along rough trails, the two eased to a squat, Whip near Heather and Buster facing them.

Buster raised his hands directing his words to Heather.

“Prairie fire. Dry lightning.”

Heather nodded, encouraging him.

“About five days out of Cheyenne. Storm came up that night. Lightning crackling all around us for hours until the herd was ready to stampede at any sound. The boys and I had all we could do to keep them bunched and moving in a circle. Old One Horn earned her salt.” His eyes crinkled with the memory. “She’d look up at the sky and shake that one horn as if warning the gods, daring them to strike her or her herd.”

Then he looked down at his hands, his voice lowered. “The next thing we knew lightening hit a pinion tree. It must have been full of sap because it exploded sending burning embers into the air. One of the embers fell on one of the new kids riding herd. Young and scared, he didn’t have the sense to jump off his horse and roll. Instead, he jumped off and ran, swatting and screaming, fanning the fire. The spark turned into a blaze. I caught him, tried to beat it out, but”—he shook his head—“it didn’t matter. We buried him the next morning.

“He was the only man or animal touched by the storm. But the land was different. The skyline glowed and we had no choice but to move the cattle in a direction as far away as possible. I knew of this trail. Rough and slow, but, like I said, we had no choice. We turned the herd, backtracked a day, then found the cut across. Anyway,” he said, raising his head once again to direct his words and gaze to Heather, “that’s what happened.”

“Let me see your hands,” Heather demanded and, much to Whip’s surprise, Buster docilely held them out as she reached toward them. Her manner was gentle and she held them tenderly before slowly unwrapping the bandages.

As the last vestige of bandage was removed, Heather gave a sharp intake of breath at the reddened flesh. She glanced up at Buster, tears touching the lashes of her eyes. “Oh, Buster. The pain.” It was a statement not a question. Then she did something surprising. She lowered her head and smelled both hands. When she looked up at the two men, a hint of smile chased away the threatening tears.

“Onion?”

Buster nodded.

“That’s why there are no blisters.”

He nodded again, his respect for the woman growing. Now he could see why she had captivated Whip.

“Are you a healer,
wiwasteka
?” he asked Heather.

“No. But I suspect you are. I’ve read about the effectiveness of bruised onions on burns in my animal husbandry books.”

“I’d noticed some wild onions growing alongside a stream a few days back,” Buster said. “Cookie picked them to cut up and put in his beans. He wasn’t too happy about me making him mash them then smear the paste all over my hands. He was even unhappier when I insisted he tear up one of his dishtowels for bandages.”

While he was talking, Heather rewrapped his hands. They would heal, but they’d hurt in the process.

“Can you ride?” Whip spoke for the first time. He knew that, like all the Indian ponies, Wind had been trained to respond to pressure from his rider’s knees. Reins were unnecessary.

Buster nodded. “Some. When it got too bad, I’d take a rest in Cookie’s wagon. That’s why you found me there. I’d been out most of the morning and knew we were getting close to the Powder River. Herd should reach it by tonight. I figured we’d bed down there and make it on into the ranch some time tomorrow. We got a couple of good hands, Whip. They took over and drove the herd, making as good a time as possible.”

Whip heard what Buster wasn’t saying. The men would do anything for this man who had put himself at risk trying to save one of their own. If getting the herd through in good time was what Buster Walking Tall wanted, then it was what they wanted, too. Buster would never admit his selflessness, and he would be angry if Whip made anymore of the incident.

Her task completed, Heather stood and gathered Patch’s reins in her hands. “There ought to be some catnip or skunk cabbage growing around here,” she said. “I give it to my animals for pain. I know there’s skunk cabbage along the Powder River.” She shrugged apologetically. “I don’t know how it’ll work on humans, but it’s worth a try.”

“I’ve been using nettle, but I’ll look for your skunk cabbage. Thank you.”

“Whip, you’ll be moving slower than I want to. Dark will catch me if I don’t start back now.”

“I’ll go with you,” he answered.

“No. Your place is with Buster and the herd. You take them on home. Patch and I can make good time. I should make the border of the Circle C before dark. If not, I’ll give Patch his head, he’ll know the way.” She flashed a warning look at Whip, stopping any words of protest. “I know this land. My ranch needs me.” Her words said it all.

She looked at Buster, his face stoic. “You know where to find me if you need me?”

He nodded. He knew. He’d heard talk of the Circle C.

“Whip, don’t forget your beef.” Her gaze softened as it lingered on the tall ranger. His eyes held hers.

Having said all she needed to say, she turned Patch back to the trail, and, without a backward glance, she left the two men standing, watching the trail dust eat up any sight of her.

“Whip,” Buster said.

“Buster, you’re my friend, but I don’t care, hurt hands and all, I’ll bust you in your mouth if you say one smart thing.” Whip growled the words, but the smile on his face took the sting out of them.

“Whoa, I wasn’t going to say anything except—”

“Yeah?”

“Except I’m not sure you’re man enough for that woman.”

“And you are?”

“Maybe. Maybe.”

Chapter 15

Whip knew he had put it off as long as he could. He had to go into town for supplies. That morning Cookie had given him a list a mile long and told him they were getting mighty short on beans. Whip wondered if that’s all the old man knew how to cook and he caught himself thinking of Heather’s fresh bread. Of course, that wasn’t all he thought of when he thought of Heather. He tried to push her from his mind and when that didn’t work, he’d go to the top of the knoll and stand by Lettie’s grave, letting the memories of the woman he had loved wash over him. And if Heather’s green eyes, her soft curly hair, and her wide smile invaded more of his waking hours than he wanted, he quickly reminded himself there was no room for a woman in his life. Not now, not ever, not until— He shoved the thought aside. He’d spent five years pursuing the man who’d killed Lettie, and that man had disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him.

Besides, there was no reason to think Heather wanted to be anything other than a neighbor. She’d made it clear that she answered only to herself and had no intention of belonging to any man.

Whip couldn’t help but remember Buster’s parting “Maybe.” The one word spun back and around his mind. They didn’t talk about Heather; neither one would mention her name. And when he was thinking clearly, he knew Buster had as much right to her friendship as he did. Still, it was all he could do to keep his mouth shut and say thank you the day Buster rode in from the direction of the Circle C with Whip’s portion of beef tied on behind him.

He grunted his thanks, trying not to scowl or ask the questions on the tip of his tongue. Then he hung the beef in the smoke house and told Cookie he wanted some fried that evening, beans or no. The old cook smiled over tobacco-stained gums and eyed the beef. That night, they all enjoyed the steaks even if they were burnt around the edges and blood red in the middle.

In an effort to put the visit from his mind, Whip took on the chores everybody dreaded doing, working longer and harder than any of his hands. He refused to think about what Heather might have shared with Buster. He refused to think about their conversations. He refused to think about her showing Buster around the animal pens and the underground barn. He had no hold on her—none.

“Whip?” Buster’s voice broke into his thoughts, his back bent over a shovel-full of manure in the holding corral. “I’m going to ride over to Crazy Woman Creek.”

Whip wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Crazy Woman Creek? That’s more’n a days ride. What for?”

“I got word.” Buster didn’t offer more. He held Wind’s reins in his hand. He’d changed from the long pants and shirt he wore around the ranch and now looked every inch an imposing brave.

Whip knew without being told that he’d been contacted by someone from either his tribe or a friendly band passing through. Whatever the reason, Buster saw need to leave. They both understood this would happen from time to time and they both accepted it as part of the weave of their friendship.

Whip nodded. “No worry.” Then he said something he’d later remember, “Things couldn’t be going smoother here. Not a problem one. In fact, I think I’ll take off a few days myself and go into town for some supplies. You need anything?”

“No. But you might want to go by the Circle C and see if Heather does.” Buster’s voice was void of emotion, but his eyes gave him away. They were literally dancing with devilish delight. “Course, if you don’t have time, I could swing by there and check. It’s out of my way, but I wouldn’t mind seeing her.” He paused, and then added, “Again.”

That did it. A man could take only so much before his mouth overrode his brain. Whip bit at the bait. “Again? Again? Just how many times have you been over to the Circle C checking on Heather Campbell?”

“Some.” A maddening grin flashed as he lightly vaulted onto Wind’s back.

“Hold on. What’s some? One, two, three times? What do you do over there? I’ve never seen you be that sociable. What, do you two . . . oh to hell with it. I’ve kept my mouth shut long enough. Just what do you two talk about during these visits that you’re so darned smug about?

Buster turned the horse’s head and, with his back to Whip, slowly moved away.

One word drifted back over his shoulder. “You.” He kicked his horse and before Whip could absorb the word, Buster was down the trail.

“Me? They talk about me? Heather talks about me?” Whip grinned. “So they talk about me.” His grin widened. “All this time I’ve been stewing and fighting with myself, and damned if he didn’t know it. He knew I was festering like a boil and he was watching and enjoying my misery.” Whip shook his head, “I’m sweating and stinking and about as dumb as this manure pile.”

Pitchfork in hand, he strode across the barnyard. “Here,” he said to a cowboy standing there. “Holding corral needs finishing and when you’re through with that, the barn needs cleaning. Tell the others Buster’s gone for a few days. I’m going into town for supplies. You boys get a list going, and I’ll pick up what you need. Curly’s in charge until I get back.”

Without waiting for an answer, he walked over to the cabin and lifted a Number 2 washtub down from the side of the building. He carried it around to the back for some privacy. Then he disappeared inside the cabin, returning with a bucket of steaming water from the kitchen reservoir. It took several trips to fill the tub, but when he lowered his aching, smelly body into the water, it was worth every bit of the effort.

A different man, Whip drove a buckboard onto the Circle C later that afternoon. His boots shined, his black shirt fit snug across his back and chest, molding every hard muscle. He pulled the horse up short and looked around for sign of life. The wind whispered through the big cottonwood. The mare’s tail swatted at a fly as she shifted from one foot to another, waiting for a command. Whip’s eyes moved restlessly over the house and yard.

He had to shake free of a memory that was always lying in wait: the vision of riding into a different ranch yard. Riding in unobserved, not hearing the message sent by the stillness. His poor judgment had cost him dearly. He wondered if he would ever stop paying.

With catlike stealth he jumped from the buckboard, his boots lightly touching the ground, his body taut with listening. Then he heard it, a faint murmur. He cocked his head as a slow, easy smile parted his lips and the tension drained from his body.

Quietly, he walked toward the sound, and the closer he got the more defined the murmur became. He paused as he let the sight of her fill him. She was on her knees bent over something on a sheet of canvas in one of the bigger pens. Her hands moved quickly and surely. Her voice was soothing and calming.

He moved silently closer, smelling the air uneasily. It was natural for him to revert to his Indian upbringing. A scent of danger wafted from Heather. Instinctively he knew that whatever she was doing must not be disturbed. He circled around so that, should she look up, she’d see him standing there. He didn’t want to startle her. He could see her clearly, but her body shielded the animal.

Minutes ticked by, then, as if she sensed a presence, she paused and looked up from her work. She gave a quick nod, recognizing him standing there, his face shadowed by his hat. A smile curved around her lips. A small dimple danced at the side of her mouth. She pursed her lips in a silent shush as her head motioned him forward.

He took a few steps then stopped short as if an invisible hand blocked his path. His eyes widened and he swallowed hard, recognizing the animal lying under Heather’s hands. Bobcat. A hot flash of anger and fear went through him. Damn the woman, didn’t she realize? Of course she realized. But if an animal was hurt, dangerous predator or not, it wouldn’t matter.

He saw the grayish brown coat, whiskered face, and black-tufted ears. This cat was smaller than some he’d seen, probably a young one. The pattern of spots on its coat acted as camouflage, helping it blend with its surroundings. He judged it to weigh about 20 pounds, muscular, its hind legs longer than the front ones. He’d once watched one chasing a rabbit and had laughed at its bobbing gait, that is, until he saw it pounce for the kill.

It may be smaller than the bigger cats, but it was a hunter, seeing as good at night as it did during the day. Rabbits, mice, birds, even fish were fair prey. Bobcats normally avoided water, but if hungry enough, one would swim for its supper. And they were darned patient hunters, crouching in wait for victims to wander close enough then pouncing and grabbing with sharp, retractable claws. The cats were stalkers and would take down larger game. He had seen the carcass of a small calf with the telltale claw marks.

What chance would a woman Heather’s size have against a wounded bobcat? Whip’s muscles jerked and he wanted to move quickly, grab the woman, and get her the hell out of that pen. He moved a few, cautious feet closer.

Now he could see her more clearly. She concentrated on the task at hand, finishing stitching a wide gash across the animal’s back. The cat’s yellow eyes were open, unseeing. Its ribs expanded and closed with each shallow breath. Claws retracted, it looked no more dangerous than a large house cat.

Kneeling down, Whip looked closer at the gash. The animal had been shot, the plow of a bullet furrowed across its back. The wound looked nasty and painful, painful enough to cause any animal to go crazy. Heather seemed oblivious to the danger as she carefully stitched the ragged edges together. She reached for a small can of yellow powder and, taking a handful, sprinkled it liberally over the wound. She started to rise, then paused, stroking her hand gently along the side of the cat’s face.

“Poor thing,” she whispered.

Rising to her feet, she looked down. The cat lay under a roofed portion of the pen, shaded from the hot sun. Heather picked up her assortment of tools and started for the gate, Whip following, putting himself between the woman and the cat.

She no sooner twisted the heavy wire through the gate, securely locking it behind them when she began to tremble. All color had drained from her face as tears flooded her eyes. Whip took one look at her and swooped her up in his arms, holding her tight against his chest. She grabbed his shirt and buried her face as sobs wracked her body. Carrying her over to the house, he climbed the steps to the porch and eased down in a wooden rocker, holding her with gentle strength.

He didn’t say a word, just held her and rocked. Finally the sobs lessened and the shaking stopped. She raised her head and looked at him, her eyes wide.

“I was scared, so scared, Whip.” A final shudder rippled through her. She allowed herself a few more minutes in his comforting arms then, taking a deep breath, she pushed herself up. Gingerly, as if she might break, she took a few steps and sat down in the other chair.

His arms felt empty and he tried to ignore how right she’d felt snuggled against his chest. It was good she’d moved, he told himself. A few more minutes and he might have brushed his lips across those curls of hers. A few more minutes and he might have forgotten that a woman had no place in his life or in his heart.